The dinnerless NYE date
And FINALLY taking seriously what you want
As established last year, there are three things I don’t care to be: cold, hungry, and uncomfortable. Even worse is when any combination of this trifecta of misery coincides with a holiday, like a birthday.
"Are You Doing This for Me, or for You?"
It was, I think, my 22nd birthday, and I was three things I don’t like to be on any day, much less a birthday. I was cold, hungry, uncomfortable. And a bonus fourth: I was late to an event. My boyfriend, let’s call him Chad, had thoughtfully planned a memorable birthday night, and even though the execution didn’t quite land, I found his effort sweet. I think. In my wiser age, I also wonder if said birthday was more for him than it was for me.
Speaking of holidays, New Years is one of my favorites of the entire year. There’s something immensely satisfying about the ringing out of an old year and the ushering in of a new one.
The reflecting on the past and setting intentions and resolutions for the future.
The decluttering of physical spaces and mental/spiritual attitudes.
The coziness of a lower-key holiday after the wonderful hoopla of Christmas.
The New Year’s Day breakfast tradition my sister and I enjoy most years at Ruth’s Diner. Like women decades older than we are, we go early enough to order the Early Bird Special, then SPLIT IT. You should’ve seen how displeased our server was that first year. Now she has come to appreciate our visit and even remembered us 2.5 years after our last visit. We tip extra well and this year took gifts for our server—a set of habit cards from me, and I think my sister is bringing a loaf of homemade bread.
Leading up to a New Year’s Eve many years ago, a new romantic prospect, Chad, and I talked about my ideal NYE. It involves pizza and sweat pants. Other things too, but definitely those two things. Over hot chocolate, we further discussed my idea of a miserable New Year’s Eve: attending a fancy ball, since such activity would involve a) going out in the cold, b) wearing fancy (translation: uncomfortable) clothes, and c) staying out late.
Days later, Chad texted to ask me out for New Year’s Eve. There was a really cool place he wanted to take me for dinner, but the earliest reservation they had was for 10:10pm. Was I game? Like an absolute glutton for punishment, I abandoned my dreams of sweats and pizza, and said yes. Chad couldn’t have known what a curious cat I am. Or that, especially then, I’d do almost anything that involved intrigue and an element of surprise.
As the day approached, Chad suggested we kick off festivities by going to a movie, and thoughtfully sent over a couple options he thought I’d enjoy. From his genuinely great selections, I chose the movie Joy. This quirky treasure is about big dreams and entrepreneurship and I loved it. A favorite quote from it:
“When you’re hiding you’re safe, because people can’t see you. But funny thing about hiding: you’re even hidden from yourself.”
Because our later reservation place had a fancy dress code, I watched the movie wearing a skirt/shirt combo with heeled (translation: uncomfortable) shoes. And tights, because it was something like 6 degrees Fahrenheit that night. I needed all the warmth I could get (says the woman not above using a tablecloth as a lapquilt at professional conferences). You menfolk can be grateful that no one has recently popularized hosiery for men. I suppose you had your fun stint with them in the 1500s when I think male courtiers and royals wore tights with coats and funny shoes.
Even while immensely enjoying the movie and anticipating the 10:10pm surprise, I was cold and uncomfortable. But not yet desperately hungry, so I managed to be pleasant company for Chad. Our conversation about sweats and pizza was bubbling up at the edges of my mind, but I reminded myself that I’d chosen this experience, and that the fancy dinner would be worth it.
Well.
When we arrived at the hip downtown speakeasy, our reservation had mysteriously vanished. Semi-apologetically and semi-accommodatingly, they squeezed us in nearly 30 minutes later. We were seated at a table with another couple and told to “help yourselves” to the small plate of crackers and cheese at the bar while our server brought us champagne. Problem: neither of us drink alcohol. Our request for something non-alcoholic was met with some initial hesitation and confusion, but eventual fulfillment.
Our server’s confusion was due to the fact that literally everyone else was there for one purpose: unlimited champagne, all night. They hadn’t planned on two non-drinking Christians waltzing in and requesting something other than champagne.
Eventually, we were served our non-alcoholic beverages which we sipped while making awkward small talk with our affianced tablemates. And eating our tiny portions of cheese and crackers. The plate at the bar was obviously meant to be shared by dozens of people who’d eaten dinner, or who possessed the appetite of birds. Neither category described me.
From the absence of plates of food on other tables, menus, and delicious smells, I gathered that no dinner was to be had in this establishment. Not only was I cold and uncomfortable; now I was hungry. And frankly embarrassed about the whole thing. The server seemed a bit embarrassed for us when, nearing midnight, Chad finally asked if we could order food. “The kitchen is actually closed tonight,” was the server’s apologetic answer. But thankfully, it was the information Chad needed to suggest we leave. Enthusiastically, I agreed. I had sweat pants and a hot bath to get home to and food to find.
Had there been that intangible “click” between Chad and I, we could have talked and laughed our way through the whole thing. It could’ve been one of my favorite New Year’s Eves. Heck, had we been simpatico, we could have celebrated our 10-year anniversary this past year and could be getting a kick out of this early fiasco in our love story.
Alas, there is no love story to share. Nice guy, nice girl, just not compatible.
Chad wasn’t really to blame for the night. Sure, he could’ve maybe read the Groupon description more thoroughly and discerned that dinner was not offered that night. He could’ve remembered the conversation about sweats and pizza. Perhaps he didn’t know just how serious I was about it. I also maybe didn’t know how serious I was about it, but I do now. It’s one of the magical things about growing up—you start to know what you actually want and you become better at asking for it, and more capable of making it happen on your own. Given all this, you can probably guess what December 31, 2025 held for me.
Do you have a worst-but-memorable New Year’s Eve?
Isn’t life cool even if sometimes cold and uncomfortable and hunger-inducing, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…
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